


The Snow Kisses Gently

by word_docs_and_willowboughs



Series: Four Thousand Winter Thought She Not Too Long [1]
Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Dunnett plays fast and loose with ages, Established Relationship, F/F, Lymond is a lady, Margaret isn't... behaving badly but is questionable, Power Imbalance, Pre-Book 1: The Game of Kings, Rule 63, She is also 16 here, Snowed In, almost, as in they've done this before, doesn't make this less bad/questionable, they kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22029583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/word_docs_and_willowboughs/pseuds/word_docs_and_willowboughs
Summary: In disguise as a young man, Frances Crawford of Lymond joins up with the English as a spy over the border. Planning strategy with George Douglas and some others, she has an opportunity to encounter his niece — not for the first time — and a snag in her plans to leave for home at once that comes in the form of a snow storm. It does, however, mean a chance to pick up where she and Margaret left off in their budding relationship... assuming they can find a quiet corner of the house.
Relationships: Francis Crawford of Lymond and Sevigny/Margaret Douglas
Series: Four Thousand Winter Thought She Not Too Long [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1585696





	The Snow Kisses Gently

**Author's Note:**

> This is, as the tags suggest, R63 with Lymond and some others as women.  
> Name changes: Francis = Frances; Jerott = Janet.  
> The only context necessary is that Margaret knows Lymond is in diguise but not that she is a double agent, and Janet knows roughly what Lymond is doing.

“Young man,” said George Douglas with a nod to the slight figure who’d risen from the table across from him, “I believe at this point, we can properly call you wise beyond your years.” Looking down at the map laid out over the table, Frances Crawford set down the cup of wine from which she’d been judiciously drinking for the sake of copying the men with whom she was planning a raid on the Scottish side of the border, and smiled. Despite the fact that it was the intelligence she’d gathered which formed the undergirding of the coming attack, and her subtleties which persuaded them of a most assured success — and before that persuaded them of her manhood, or boyhood — she could tell that she was being gently mocked. To them, she was still an over-eager child looking to escape the confines of a chafing noble home, even unto the point of treason; too young for proper motivation, but a good little spy nonetheless. 

As she felt Douglas’s eyes on her and reached up reflexively to push her cap down a little further on her head, she knew he was wrong in thinking that she mattered little, because he was not the only one watching. His niece, Margaret, was hovering in the corner of the room, hands folded politely in front of her, and looking at Frances with an expression of keen interest that was positively magnetic. On a face as beautiful as hers, fair-skinned and dark haired and otherwise serene, it was all the girl who was, for the moment, a boy, could do not to gawk. In fact, she might well have been, as she realized gradually that she had never answered her superior’s statement. If there was a manner in which she could be called a child for her inexperience, or a girl for her size, it was concerning alcohol, which had scarcely touched her ally-enemies but was beginning to go to her head a little now; she started, open-mouthed.

“Thank you, sir,” she said, remembering even in haste to drop her voice with a practiced precision. She had, after all, been at this sporadically for several months, though not necessarily so far from home. As far as her parents knew, she’d gone to visit the Blyths — and would be there, eventually, to meet her friend and sometime confidante who was, when necessary, her sole aide in maintaining her secret comings and goings. Even she did not know everything, but was loyal enough to trust that wherever she was going in disguise, it was for the good of king and country. With a nod and a parting acknowledgement, the men were soon dispersing, and Frances made to follow, but Margaret tilted her head to one side, and after an odd look from her uncle, which she ignored, gestured to Frances to stay. 

She did, and when the door was shut behind them both she let out a deep exhale she hadn’t realized she had been holding. If Janet Blyth was her sole aide in spying, she was one of two who knew the secret that was her womanhood. That had been known to Margaret since the day she’d first kissed her, thinking her blushing and awkward protest to be that of an inexperienced youth, until she’d grown suspicious enough — and got close enough, in private, thank God — to unmask her. Careful as Frances was, the necessity of transforming back to her true self meant that she could not cut her hair, which rendered the hat terribly important, and the nearness of a kiss more dangerous than she could have imagined. Margaret was dangerous. Frances knew too well from the way she looked at her, kind, eager, but with what the girl imagined was the same sort of ambition that had landed her twice in the Tower of London. To find time alone with her in her uncle’s house was audacious. Her words were more bold still, and beautiful, because in spite of danger, or perhaps because of it, Frances Crawford was hopelessly, stupidly in love with her. 

The confident, melodic voice was accompanied by her hands taking Frances’s, and a gentle smile.   
“Are you staying?” she asked, and Frances blinked.  
“What? Here?” and when Margaret nodded, “I was… unaware that an invitation had been extended. Sir George did not mention…” Margaret laughed.  
“It was my suggestion,” she said, “just before the meeting. I wanted to see you again; it isn’t so late that we cannot… talk.” Frances glanced around, as if they were not totally alone in a room with both of its doors shut.   
“Is that wise?”  
“It’s a big house,” Margaret noted. “It wouldn’t be the first time…” A frown flitted across Frances’s features at the thought of Margaret and the famous, faceless man before her time, but she banished it easily looking at her lover. Then all at once, Margaret changed her angle and threw Frances entirely. “Besides, I wouldn’t let you go if you asked. The weather is horrid.” 

“Oh.” She had forgotten; in theory, winter was nearly over, but in practice the cold was bitter still, and snow not infrequent. On her arrival, it had been dry but for a few flakes beginning to drift down, but the meeting had lasted for hours. “Has Boreas begun a new attack, Lady Douglas?”   
“It’s not the wind,” Margaret sighed. “It’s snowing, hard; I can’t condone you leaving all alone, and in the evening. Suppose you lose yourself when it’s dark?” Again, Frances looked about, and bit her lip. There was only a faint hope that she did not sound petulant on asking,  
“You really don’t think I can manage? And — besides, what if someone sees?”   
“There are quiet places we can find to be alone,” Margaret said flippantly, before her expression shifted towards concern at Frances’s silence; the unspoken thought of Margaret Douglas’s bed, or whatever would suffice —with all its impossibilities — had rendered her mute. “Oh,” she hesitated. “I didn’t mean… we mustn’t do anything you do not wish to. I only meant, if you did want to talk, alone.” Without thinking, Frances opened her mouth to protest; if she did not know what more than before was exactly, she knew with absolute certainty that she missed closeness, missed Margaret’s face near hers, missed the brush of lips and light touches of hands. Margaret noticed, of course, and raised her eyebrows. “Or I suppose you could kiss me again. You seemed to like that.” 

Briefly, Frances squeezed her hands, and forced a sober note into her voice, afraid suddenly that the pleasant buzzing in her head which she attributed to the wine might encourage her to rashness.  
“I… did. But it seems foolhardy to stay all night, surely?”  
“Not if it’s allowed,” Margaret noted.  
“I don’t see how I could very well justify sleeping with every bit of clothing on down to my hat,” Frances said. “It’s too much of a risk.” After a moment, the older woman nodded, with a regretful sigh.   
“Well,” she said at last, “If you must go, leave the back way to the stables. I’ll show you.” Frances raised her eyebrows, perplexed.   
“Why?”  
“Because,” said Margaret, the spark of mischief returning suddenly to her eyes, “Practically no one uses it.” She took her hand and guided her to the door opposite the one George Douglas had left through, towards paths left to disuse except for the occasional subtly of a servant — or in this case, a mistress.

The corridor outside was long but dim, and Frances thanked God for the thick walls which kept secret Margaret’s quiet laughter, disarmingly girlish for being older than her. There were a number of twists and turns, but soon enough they had come to a spiraling stair leading downward from their high position, the steps even and flat in contrast to Midculter’s tilted ones to trip would-be invaders on a hasty ascent. There was, after all, no reason to repel an army, as they were not in some great fortress. Margaret was right, however, about quiet and privacy. A step below Frances, she looked up and grinned.   
“I rather like you being taller than me.” Frances smiled honestly back, more widely than before.  
“You rather like me in a doublet, too… I wonder, would you love me if you saw me in a dress?”   
“It depends,” said Margaret, “would you act the same?” 

Frances’s breath caught as she nodded, and without much preamble, Margaret tilted her face up, as if in offering. Then she drew Frances closer with hands circling her waist and leaned the pair of them towards the wall.   
“You said you liked kissing me before,” she noted, as if it were an afterthought. Frances needed no further encouragement to lean down and offer in her turn. 

If her mind was not often free of insistent analysis, perpetual intake of all detail around her, scrutiny over the smallest choices and the way which she showed herself to the world, now she could at the least re-direct her efforts away from talk of war. In this way, she enjoyed the kisses but practiced them as well, learning with each encounter to better read Margaret by movement, expression, response… and learning what elicited the best reactions as well. It was enough, and more than enough, and she could never have been disappointed with it, she thought. Wether pride was the typical emotion to feel on finding oneself decently lost in pleasure and passing time pressed to the wall of a stone stairway trying to pull one’s beloved impossibly closer, Frances wasn’t sure. She did know that she was happy, and that somewhere it was cold, but right now, she had a shield, and that anything she wished to forget, for these precious minutes, she could.


End file.
